00:12:34 elapsed.
The First Draw continues.
Six players. Five minutes until someone breaks.
The silence didn't feel like silence anymore. It felt like waiting—not the peaceful kind, but the kind that coats your spine with unease. A breath held too long. A scream that never gets permission.
The man in the suit had gone quiet after lashing out. He avoided everyone's eyes now, especially Yushen's. There was nothing behind his hunched posture but fear dressed as patience.
To his left, the bearded man cracked his knuckles—slow, rhythmic, like punctuation. On the far side of the table, the girl in the hoodie kept rocking, eyes locked downward, fingers twitching against the edge of her card. The bald man looked like a statue someone forgot to dust. Absolute stillness. Barely blinking.
Yushen stayed perfectly centered. Unmoving. Calm. Watching—not like a predator, not like prey—just… watching.
But make no mistake: he was thinking.
Too early to act. Too late to pretend the air's not thinning. Pressure's reaching its breaking point. Whoever moves next—wins the spotlight. Or loses their place.
A shadow shifted beside him—subtle, no threat in the movement—but enough to tug his awareness toward it.
The woman with the sharp jaw had leaned just slightly closer. Not enough to trigger alarm bells. Just enough for him to hear her when she spoke low.
"Li Yushen, right?"
She kept her gaze on the table, like it wasn't a question. Like she already knew.
Yushen didn't answer immediately. Let the name sit for a breath. Then:
"Yes. Don't believe I caught yours."
A whisper of a smile ghosted her mouth. Blink and you'd miss it.
"Xu Lian," she offered. "You're not trying to win this round."
His gaze lifted—quiet, direct. Not confrontational. Just real.
"No," he said. "I'm watching to see who needs to lose first."
A soft exhale from her, not quite a laugh. Something smaller. Sharper.
"Same."
Nothing more.
They weren't allies. Not yet. But something passed between them anyway. A quiet alignment of thought. Two minds stepping onto the same layer of the board without speaking the move aloud.
Then it happened.
A sound. Barely audible. A whisper of motion.
Cardboard sliding on glass.
All heads turned—instinct, not choice.
The girl in the hoodie had flipped her card.
Hands trembling. Shoulders tight. Face like she'd confessed to a crime.
On the table: Joker. Red ink. A grinning mask painted in blood. No voice spoke. No punishment came. No disembodied god called down justice.
The room just… held its breath.
Xu Lian's fingers flexed faintly. A tick, not a tell.
The bald man shifted for the first time, eyes narrowing a fraction.
Beard-man grinned. Not kindly.
"Well. That's interesting."
Yushen didn't move.
He didn't need to.
She flipped on her own. So voluntary reveals aren't punished. Or not this time. Means risk mechanics are player-driven. Controlled tension. Interesting.
Showing a Joker—openly—could be a feint. Or a plea. She wants someone else to move. Force a chain reaction. Either smart… or suicidal.
"You shouldn't have done that."
Xu Lian's voice was almost gentle, but not soft. Like a hand lightly tapping glass.
The girl flinched. "I didn't lie. That matters… doesn't it?"
Yushen didn't look at her, but his voice reached across anyway.
"Depends who you think is watching."
The bearded man tilted his head. "So now we know she's not the Ace. She's safe."
"Unless she's not," Xu Lian cut in, calm and clean. "Could be a bluff. Could be someone else's card."
A blink. Beard-man's brows pulled down.
"She flipped it."
Xu Lian didn't blink. "It's just paper. She could've taken someone else's while we were arguing."
"I didn't—" the girl tried, voice cracking.
"No one's accusing," Yushen said, his tone like cold rain—not harsh, but abrupt. Enough to make her stop talking.
The timer continued.
00:16:10.
No one moved. But the air wasn't still anymore.
Yushen could feel the temperature rise. Not in heat—in blood. In instinct. In the way people's breathing started to miss sync. The way shoulders curled inward, protectively.
He closed his eyes, just for a second.
Age 11. A broken chess piece. His father's voice like thunder, not out of anger, but calculation. The other boy sobbing, hands trembling. Yushen watching with dry eyes, trying to understand the tears.
Emotion wasn't his first language. It still isn't.
When he opened them again, the room hadn't changed.
But something had shifted.
Xu Lian was watching him now—not questioning, not confrontational. Just… noticing. Like someone examining the frame of a puzzle before putting the pieces together.
She didn't smile this time.
Four seconds passed between them. Then she looked away.
00:17:45.
The King hadn't moved.
Or had moved so subtly no one noticed.
Yushen studied the table. The cards. The hands. The posture shifts. The silences between words.
Someone in this room wasn't reacting.
They were curating.
The girl might've acted out of fear. But someone let her. Or encouraged her. A subtle nudge. Pressure applied just enough to make her fold herself.
The King's not looking to win this round. The King's observing who breaks first—and how others respond.
This wasn't a battle yet.
It was a tasting menu of fear.
And the real moves hadn't started.
Not yet.
But soon.